


baby, don’t hold out (it’s cold outside)

by thhimble



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: And that's, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Hallmark Movie, Levels of cheese, Reader-Insert, Size Kink, Smutty Fun, Weddings, and do what i want, because im nothing if not predictable, cliched fun, ive decided to embrace the shitshow of 2020, shocked inhale, there's only one bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:48:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28012677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thhimble/pseuds/thhimble
Summary: “Uh-oh, somethings happened,” you say nudging her with your elbow, hoping it’s nothing too serious and trying to brighten that look on her face a little. “Wrong flowers? Bad champagne? Do I need to fight someone?”Clara huffs a laugh. “Like you could.” She smiles and then sobers and winces. “There’s been a bit of a… there’s a small, little, itty-bitty issue with the rooms.”You lift a brow. “You and Sam didn’t get the suite you want? Or did the gaggle decide they're all camping out in Cavill’s room this week?”When Clara winces again, your eyebrows shoot up. “Wait, seriously? Are people actually trying to room with him?”
Relationships: Henry Cavill/Original Female Character(s), Henry Cavill/Reader, Henry Cavill/You
Comments: 43
Kudos: 202





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _oh my god there was only one bed_

* * *

one

* * *

There’s a group of women gathered around him, their laughter and chatter loud in the lobby of the inn as everyone moves around, checking in and greeting each other, excited for the week ahead.

It’s warm inside, almost too warm in the layers of your winter coat, the heat making your cold cheeks burn. The whole place smells like pine and cinnamon and the fire that’s crackling in the massive stone fireplace in the main sitting area, decked out for Christmas just like the rest of the inn.

Someone laughs too loudly and too long, and you watch a woman’s head tilt back, her hand touching his arm like he’s said the funniest thing in the _history_ of funny things.

You roll your eyes and hike your weekend bag a little higher on your shoulder. _He’s not_ that _funny,_ you think a little meanly and then shake your head at yourself for being mean for no real reason.

When the front door opens again, on a cold burst of air and another couple arriving for the winter wedding festivities, you greet the pair quickly, side stepping and ignoring the calls from a group behind you, a chorus of _hellos_ and _oh, Alex and Paul are here, look—_

You slip past them, waving them off with a smile as they head towards the group. _Just a bit warm,_ you say when they look at you sliding by and stepping back outside into the quiet, winter morning, _be back in a minute._

Outside, after the door’s shut and the merriment inside fades, the snow falls in quiet, swaying waves from the sky, and you breathe in the cold, fresh air, looking out over the expanse of white, the holly and garland wrapped around the large, white wrap-around porch that circles the inn.

It’s pretty. Prettier than the pictures even made it look, during all those long wedding planning sessions with Clara.

The smell of the fire is still there, warming the crisp air around you as you lean against the railing, fiddling with one of the bows tied to garland, the bells jingling softly.

You’d hoped, honestly, that he wouldn’t come; you’d met him twice since Clara and Sam had first started dating, when even Clara, who was happy in her relationship with Sam, had been caught by the reality of Henry Cavill in front of them.

 _(You know_ , she’d said _, I knew he knew him, he talks about him all the time, best friend and all, but_ — _he’s so handsome, isn’t he?_ She’d grinned and leaned closer, adding in a whispered rush: _it’s almost mean, isn’t it?)_

He was, of course, and he’d had— _has,_ you think, a wicked smile that made your stomach twist and your insides skip, but— but there’d been girls around him all evening, and he turned most of your friends into these giggling messes and you… you didn’t blame them, because he really was the sort of handsome that could make anyone let a little giggle slip loose and act a little silly.

And _maybe_ , you think, if you’d been a bit more confident, you’d have met his smile with a truer one of your own when he’d shaken your hand and said, _the best friend, right? Sam’s not shut up about you two for months—_

But— but you’d smiled tightly back and slipped your hand out of his too quickly (because it was big and warm and it made you think things that were absolutely, without a doubt, useless to think about.) You slipped away and avoided him the rest of the night, even when you’d found yourselves at the bar and he squeezed in next to you, his head tilting down and closer, his breath warm on your ear, his voice low and muffled by the noise and the music around you, _buy you a drink?_

A red-nailed hand had closed on him arm and pulled him away before you’d gotten your mouth to work enough to say _no_ and _thank you_ and _I’m good._

(You’d seen him later, smiling that toothy smile with some different woman and later, with Sam, who’d asked him how many phone numbers he’d already had slipped to him. He’d laughed, reaching into his pocket and holding a few napkins up, held between two of his fingers.)

(The next time you’d met him, at Sam’s birthday a year and a bit later, it’d been no different and you’d shoved down all the twisty, stupid mess of your insides that his smile brought and his voice created, and you’d rolled your eyes and done your best to ignore and avoid him.

 _It’s all a bit pointless to feel,_ you’d told yourself, _isn’t it?_

You certainly weren’t ever going to be a name and a number on a folded napkin for him to laugh at later.

That’s for sure.

And now, he’s here again and you breathe in and then out, slowly, watching your breath fog in front of you, waving as Clara’s parents hike up the snowy front path, greeting you warmly before moving inside to check in and see their daughter and soon-to-be son-in-law.

_It is pretty,_ you think, _maybe it won’t be so bad._

“There you are,” Clara says, her breath puffing white in front of her mouth as she slips out of the front door of the inn and into the cold with you. She comes to stand beside you at the railing of the porch as you flick through your phone and enjoy the quiet winter wonderland around you, even if it is cold.

But it only takes a second, when you look over at her to offer a smile, to tell there’s something up.

“Uh-oh, somethings happened,” you say nudging her with your elbow, hoping it’s nothing too serious and trying to brighten that look on her face a little. “Wrong flowers? Bad champagne? Do I need to fight someone?”

Clara huffs a laugh. “Like you could.” She smiles and then sobers and winces. “There’s been a bit of a… there’s a small, little, itty-bitty issue with the rooms.”

You lift a brow, “You and Sam didn’t get the suite you want? Or did the gaggle decide they’re camping out in Cavill’s room this week?”

When Clara winces again, your eyebrows shoot up. “Wait, seriously? Are people actually trying to room with him?”

Clara shakes her head. “No, no—it’s— we had it all planned out, Five singles, 9 couples. seven kids… the families in the smaller suites for the kids. Sam and I in the main suite. It was all worked out so everyone got a room…”

“But?” You prompt, waiting for the ball to drop.

“But one of the rooms isn’t available, some plumbing issue or something and— and everyone else is booked in.”

You blink. And then blink again. “Wait. You mean _me_? It’s my room that’s fucked up?”

Clara winces and nods. “But we’ve solved it, really, because we did have it all figured out, I mean, you saw it, you helped _plan it_ — we had it all written down and — and— and _Henry’s offered to share a room with you.”_

The last is said in a rush and you blink as you try to make sense of it.

And blink again.

And then laugh.

“Excuse me? _Henr_ — what, no. I’ll room with Amy or— or your brother, even? He didn’t bring anyone, right?”

“They’ve all got singles,” Clara says pulling a _I’m really really sorry, please don’t freak out_ face _._ “Henry’s the only other one with a double.”

_Wait._

_Double what?  
_

_Wait —_

You lean closer to her, your breath puffing in the cold in a sharp disbelieving laugh. “You want me to _share a bed with him!?_ ”

It’s too loud in the quiet and you feel your face heat, looking around quickly and pulling in a breath. “No way. Nuh-huh. _Not_ happening.”

“The cots have all gone to the kids,” Clara starts, her face pleading. “I swear, it won’t be that bad. He doesn’t mind, he even suggested it when he heard us talking about how to solve it!”

_He— what?_

“ _Clara_!” you say too loudly, cutting off and shaking your head, pulling in a shockingly-cold breath. “I’m not sharing a room with _Henry fucking Cavill!_ ”

“I promise I don’t snore.”

The voice comes suddenly from behind you and you both jump, turning to find Henry standing near the red front door of the inn, a small, entertained smile on his lips.

“And I’m not a cover hog.”

You blink and feel your face burn, but Clara beats you to speaking first. “Henry— hi, yes, it’s all… all good—”

“No, it’s not!” you start, but she keeps talking, her hand flapping, her laugh forced and puffing white in front of her.

“She’s totally fine with it—”

“No, _she_ ’s _not_!” you say quickly, grabbing her elbow, but her winter jacket is too thick and your gloves too soft and you can’t grab a hold of her. The sound of your hand slipping off her jacket is loud and obvious when you keep trying to tug at her. “ _Clara_!”

“She’s really thankful—”

 _Clara_ , you whisper-hiss.

Henry’s smile widens and he bites back a laugh, you can see it. “...Looks that way, yeah.”

He smirks, his eyes flicking to you; he’s only in a thick, dark-blue sweater and jeans, and you wonder how he isn’t cold as he steps closer to you and Clara near the railing. You fight the urge to step back.

His arm comes up, his hand lifting towards you as he speaks. Your eyes dart between him and his hand.

“Come on then, roomie, I’ll take your bags up, yeah?”

You stutter back a step, grabbing onto the railing for balance. The bells on the bows of the garland jingle. You hate them a little when his mouth twitches at the sound, his eyes darting down to your hand.

“I’m not rooming with you,” you argue. “That’s—that’s a _nope_.”

His tongue darts out, and you swear, you _swear_ he’s fighting off a laugh as he reaches for your bag again.

“Gonna pitch a tent on the lawn, then? Camp out in the lobby?”

You look out over the snow-covered front yard of the inn and then back at him, his hands tucking into his jean pockets, his smile crooked and entertained and waiting.

Clara is silent beside him, sending you a pleading look.

“ _Maybe_ ,” you stutter out, shivering a little but feeling hot with embarrassment and adrenaline… you _can’t_ share a room with him. There’s no way. This is a joke, isn’t it?

“This is a joke, right?” you ask, your eyes flicking between him and Clara. “Haha, guys. Very funny. One room left. Very rom-com cliché. Good one.”

Henry snorts as Clara winces.

“It’s really… it’s really not…” she says carefully, fidgeting. “He’s really got the only bed big enough for two. There was only so many singles and all the couples got the doubles—”

 _Of course he has a double,_ you think, _of course —_

“Can’t someone else—” you cut off and shake your head, looking at her with a last-ditch hope in your eyes. “I’m sure someone else would be _thrilled_ —”

Henry reaches out again, stealing the bag from your shoulder and hiking it over his own, much broader shoulder. He grins at you and steps backwards, ignoring your grabbing reach and puffed out, _hey!_

“I’ll leave you two to hash this out,” he turns and looks back once, still smiling, Clara grabs your arm and stops you from following him to take your bag back. “It’s room 208, by the way _. Roomie._ ”

Henry disappears into the inn and you’re stuck, rooted to the spot and staring at the place he just was.

You look back at Clara after a long moment and then smack her on the thick of her arm with a hollow _thwap_ through the layers of her coat and not at all effective.

“What the _fuck, Clara!_ ”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the most cliche thing I've ever written.  
> (Hope you enjoy it anyway, I needed some Christmas trash, hope you do too. This is mostly written, just a fun little project because I was in the Christmas spirit and YSkYMTYK is nowhere near Christmas. Also didn't feel like investing in new OC's so... we're going to test the writing skills and do a reader fic because.... because why not, right?)


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

two

* * *

_It’s not a big deal,_ you tell yourself, standing outside of room 208, your nose and ears burning from the warmth inside compared to the cold outside… from how long you spent lingering in the snow, trying desperately to figure out a solution that you knew, really, wasn’t there.

Clara was right, after all, you did help make the lists, you helped write and organise and plan… and your options are—

Henry pops into your head, _pitch a tent? Camp out in the lobby?_

Your options are basically _zero_.

And you’re an _adult_ not a pre-teen girl screaming over a hot boy. You can do this. You can absolutely do this. He isn’t fucking _Adonis_.

With a snort, you bury a laugh into your scarf. _He’s just a guy. Just a really attractive guy. With really nice hair. And shoulders. And eyes. And—_

 _Ugh,_ you think and blow out a breath, staring down the tauntingly-silent, somehow loopingly- _mocking_ numbers staring you down from the upper middle of the door.

_Fuck you, 208._

If numbers could personally offend, 208 was well on its way.

_Raise your hand if you’ve ever felt personally victimized by 208._

208 stays silent, cursive and nailed to the door.

You resist the urge to lift your hand, _yes, hi, I have. Let me introduce myself—_

With another snort lost to your scarf, you close your eyes and pull in a steadying breath—

And lift your hand.

“You got this,” you mutter into your scarf. “You totally, absolutely got this.”

_You’re a rock. Captain America’s shield. Mithril._

_Sam carrying Frodo up the face of Mount Doom._

You knock.

There’s a noise inside, a shuffle—

You are absolutely not at all interested in running away.

You glance at the stairs you came up.

The door opens.

You feel like Frodo, holding the One Ring over the lava.

Henry’s in the same soft, dark blue sweater, but the dark of his hair is a little softer than it was earlier and his sleeves are pushed up over his forearms and he’s in socks and it’s all so— so—

_No. You’re totally Samwise._

“Hullo,” Henry says with this slow smile that absolutely does _nothing_ to your insides. “Thought maybe I lost you to a tent after all.”

“It was a close call,” you lie, swallowing around your heartbeat. “But the ground’s frozen. For you know. The tent thingies. That go in the ground.”

You make a weird hammer motion with your hand, it doesn’t at all look like a jerking-off motion. It _doesn’t._

His smile goes crooked, his eyes flicking from your face down to the shift of your hand. You tuck it back into your coat pocket and decide you hate him. Him and his stupid, crooked smile.

“Stakes,” he says, with that stupid smile that looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Yup, those,” you say with a forced laugh. “Tent thingies.”

He snorts a laugh, but steps back, his hand spreading wide on the door, the thick of his arm holding it open for you as he tilts his head into the room.

“Come on then, girl scout. In you go.”

You hesitate before you remember you’re totally Samwise Gamgee and you heft your metaphorical Frodo and push past him into his— your— _whatever—_ room; ignoring the heat of him, size of him, smell of him, so close to you.

(You’ve been here before, anyway, in the bar that first night, with his mouth to your ear; _buy you a drink?_ But it’s somehow, no less staggering.)

Objectively, it’s a nice room, from the zero-point-one second you glance over it before your eyes land on the bed—

The bed you’ll be sharing with him—

 _No, nope._ There’s no way you can get into that bed with him, you think. No way you can lie down and pretend that you’re not… at least a little bit attracted to him.

Like, a _bit_.

You glance down; the floor is a tanned-wood colour, but there’s a nice grey rug spread out in front of a gas fireplace, that’s not all that thick, but maybe…

Henry clears his throat behind you and you startle a little, lost in the maybe of camping out on the floor.

No stakes required.

There are plenty of pillows on the bed, you think, with a quick glance. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

“About earlier,” he starts, and your eyes dart up to his, startled out of your thoughts again. “I know you’re not…” he huffs something like a laugh, crossing his arms. “Well. You aren’t thrilled, yeah? But listen, I’m not in the habit of being a prick, so I’ve made a few calls, and there’s a chance one of the other hotels a town over can bring a spare cot by. They’re going to give me a call back. But until then, I have no problem sleeping on the—”

“I can take the floor,” you interrupt because really, he’s not— it’s not his _fault,_ is it? You were the one dicking around outside and avoiding— not _avoiding_ , just… circumventing the inevitability of _him_ and what he does to… a large portion of the human population. Regardless of gender or orientation. Apparently.

What he might, maybe, _sort of_ , does to you.

It’s not his _fault_ , exactly. (Maybe his parents though, maybe you should write in a complaint, a strongly-worded letter: _dear Mrs and Mr Cavill, how dare you?_ )

Henry pulls a face and scoffs. “You’re not. Don’t be daft.”

“I’m not _daft,_ ” you parrot back, pulling your own incredulous face. “I’m serious, you’re,” you wave a hand over him, a vague Henry-shaped circle. “All you, like. And I’m… good with a little pillow-pile on the floor. It’s like, you know, girl’s sleepover. But—”

But in the bedroom of a totally-not-Adonis.

“All me like?” he questions, his brow tilting up.

You make a noise in your throat. Pressing your lips together beneath your scarf. _It’s too hot in here_ , you think, with the gas fire on and the whole— whole man in front of you in this stupid small room with its stupid one bed.

“You know. You’re like. Big.”

 _“Big,”_ he says with a slow-widening smile, and crosses his arms. It does nothing at all to his biceps. You totally do not look.

You roll your eyes, because muscles don’t just happen, and— and you know what? It _is_ his fault, you think, he made the very conscious decision to become a brick shithouse.

That’s _absolutely_ on him.

(Your metaphorical Frodo gets a little lighter, you think you might actually make it.) Blaming someone else usually helps lighten a load, doesn’t it?

This is his fault. Who cares what Clara says?

“Yup,” you say and pop the p with a finalizing sound. “So that’s settled then, _yeah?_ ” you say, copying the way he says the word, and step away from him to unwind your scarf and drape it over one of the two chairs in the room that sit in front of the fireplace and little coffee table; they’re actually sort of soft-looking, maybe you really could just sleep in that. You aren’t six-foot-whatever like he is, you have a much better chance at fitting into it in a comfortable sleeping position in one of them.

He absolutely isn’t going to out-nice you. No way.

Chair-bed or bust.

“This chair looks nice, look, the pillows are soft too,” you press your hand onto the cushion, it’s not as soft as you hoped but the pillow fairs better; it’s soft and there’s a nice little decoration of holly and ivy, too; the words _Merry Christmas_ stitched in a looping cursive in the middle of it.

“You’re not sleeping on the bloody chair,” he huffs behind you.

“Well,” you start, floundering for something to say, unzipping your jacket and turning to look at him to buy time. “That’s your opinion.”

He doesn’t roll his eyes, but you think it was a very close call. “Listen,” he starts and pulls in a breath. “There’s no way I’m sleeping in that bed with you sleeping anywhere else. I promise I can sleep anywhere, benefit of having a big family an’ all.”

You shrug off your jacket, stealing a moment to gather your thoughts, moving back towards the door to toe-off your boots, thankful they were dry from the amount of time you spent lingering downstairs and then in the hallway before finding the nerve to even _knock_.

“And I promise I really don’t care about where I sleep. The tent? Totally could do it. It’s just the ground—”

“Is frozen, yeah,” he finishes for you. “I got that bit.”

You meet his eyes, it’s mostly an accident, you weren’t avoiding it, exactly, you were just… lowering the probability of eye-contact with him by avoiding his general upper face-area.

“ _Please_ take the bed.” His face does this… this _honest_ thing that does something to your insides and you think, _damn,_ he might out-nice you after all.

But screw that.

“Is this you trying to be a gentleman?”

He blinks and then grins, standing a little straighter. “I _am_ a gentleman.”

You burst out a laugh and then cover your mouth to catch the pitch of it, grinning behind your hand. “Sorry,” you snort and shake your head. “I mean, okay. Sure.”

“I _am_. Private school, got all the lessons. Pulling out chairs. Door-opening. Arm-offering. Know all the proper forks and everything,” he teases and you can’t help but laugh as he grins at you. “My mum would literally kill me if she ever found out I took the bed and made a girl sleep on the floor.”

“Ah, so it’s a sexist thing?” you tease back, trying to kill your smile with a _tsk_. “That’s not very gentlemanly.”

“What? No,” he blinks and frowns. “That’s not— that’s not what I meant—”

You try to bite back a smile, but he must see it flickering on your mouth and huffs at you. “Very funny.”

“I thought so,” you say with a grin and step around him to look for your bag, which you find by the bed, of course. Because he’s a gentleman, _apparently._

You lift it up and over your shoulder, following where Henry points out the side tables with drawers and the closet near the door.

You set your bag on the bed, pulling out your toiletry bag and trying to ignore the feeling of him looking at you.

He pushes out a breath. “We could also just… be adults about this and share the bed?” he hedges, crossing his arms again and looking at you like he’s gauging you for something. You meet his eyes for a too-long moment where something prickles warmly inside your stomach before he shifts again, his lips quirking. “Then my gentlemanly ways would remain intact and neither of us will end up on the floor— or a chair—with a sore back.”

You hesitate, eyes flicking to the bed and then back to him.

“I snore,” you lie because the bed— any bed with him in it, is still a big, fat _nope_. “And I’m a cover-hog.”

He snorts, scrubbing a hand over his face and shaking his head. “Impossible is what you are.”

“It’s a character flaw.”

Henry huffs a laugh, pushing his hand through his hair and shaking his head. “How about we just wait to see if I can get a cot from another hotel? If I can get one, then this is all rather moot, isn’t it?”

 _Moot,_ you think. _Probably_.

 _Just like any and all attraction to him_. That’s _moot._ Pointless. He’s probably so used to people looking at him like that, that he doesn’t even register it.

It makes you feel a bit better, honestly.

You shrug because you don’t want to keep arguing with him when ignoring him generally works so much better for you.

It’s a tried-and-true solution to the Henry-Problem.

“Sure. You think you’ll get one?”

He shrugs, tugging a hand through his hair; you like it, you think, the loose, slightly curling bits you haven’t seen before. He’d had his hair different last time, a bit shorter, a bit straighter.

“I promise I’m doing my best?” he offers with a half-wince.

That, and the lift in his voice carries enough meaning.

Not sure at all, then.

Well. He still isn’t going to out-nice you.

You’re Samwise fucking Gamgee.

The bathroom is nice, a bit small, but nice. You plop your toiletry bag on the vanity and glance at Henry’s stuff, already neatly set on one side of the sink. You touch the edge of a cologne bottle, resisting the urge to pick it up to smell it.

That would be creepy, wouldn’t it?

 _Yes_ , your brain supplies. _Absolutely._

The bathroom already kind of smells like him, anyway; it’s distracting and you let your finger slide off the cool glass of the cologne and look at yourself in the mirror, instead.

There’s nothing going on tonight, no real distractions until tomorrow— you and Clara had planned it that way. It seemed like such a good idea at first, hadn’t it?

 _Arrive, unpack, relax_. Explore a bit. Give into the comfort and mood of the holiday season at the inn while watching the snowfall from a safe, warm distance.

Have a bath. Read a book.

You stare at the shower accusingly.

You’re sure your room had a bathtub.

You mourn a little for the lost opportunity of your quiet room and your e-reader with a hot chocolate or a bit of wine and a bubble bath, before pulling in a breath and righting yourself, fixing your clothes before reaching for the door.

Back out in the room, Henry’s sitting in one the chairs by the fireplace, looking mostly relaxed, watching the fake-glow of the flames, his knees spread in that manspreading slouch so many guys do. You want to hate it on principle, but his thighs are—

 _Thighs_ , you think. They’re _thighs, get a grip._

Henry looks at you, you look at him. The moment stretches out.

His eyes are… your belly does a little flop and you take a step backwards.

“I’m going to check on Clara and Sam,” you say and take another step back towards the door.

“Already did,” he says from the chair, a little frown between his brows as he sits up. “I thought maybe we—”

“Yeah, but I’m the Maid of Honour,” you interrupt and force a smile as you slip towards freedom. The room is way too small and warm, isn’t it? Unbearable, almost. “It’s like, my job.”

(You know the room isn’t that small. The whole place is rather decently sized. It’s why it won out, after all. The reigning champ of all the hotels and inns and lodges that had been potential venues over the months of planning.)

But it still feels too small. And he’s all you can smell.

You’re definitely not _running_ but you ignore his countering: _I’m the Best Man!_ that follows you out the door— because it just doesn’t suit the narrative of your excuse _._

If he noticed your e-reader in your hands, he was nice enough not to say anything.

 _Ugh_ , you think as the door shuts behind you lean against the door for a stretch of a moment, standing in the quiet hall and hoping no one comes out of their rooms to see you standing there.

Thankfully, you’re granted that moment of quiet before you push off the door and head down the stairs and towards the main sitting area.

The stair railings are covered in garland, set with twinkling lights and you let yourself relax the further you get from the room and the problem you left in it.

 _See_ , you think, _ignoring a problem always works._

Downstairs in the main lounge area, there’s a little area set up with carafes of coffee and hot water and hot chocolate. 

You pour yourself a mug, slip into one of the over-large sofas in front of the burning, crackling, stone fireplace and wiggle your sock-covered toes towards the fire.

 _I can totally do this,_ you tell yourself _,_ and pretend, for a moment, that you’re way more sure than you feel.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first two chapters are the shortest in the set up, next ones will be longer :) hope you enjoy the cheeeese

**Author's Note:**

> This is pure trash. Pure fluff Christmas cliche trash. don’t @ me.
> 
> actually @me, I love to be @'d 
> 
> :)


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